Per Aspera ad Astra
by tigerlily25
Summary: Ziva has abandoned her past and now has to find her place in an uncertain future. Tony's finding his feet in the present but is about to be hit with a blast from his past. Life isn't simple, but there's beauty in the battle.
1. Prologue: Reunion

**Author's Note:** Sequel to _Smoke in the Wind_, because apparently I just don't know when to leave well enough alone. ;)  
If you haven't read Smoke, you might miss out on some of the little references and backstory. Your call, really. In the spirit of new beginnings, we're moving away from all the angsting and into something slightly lighter. Not to imply that everything is a-okay. Just... more casefic, more Team Gibbs, less constant self-flagellation. And, um... Tiva. (Like there was ever any doubt)

**_Summary_**: It's all well and good to have your questions answered, but what do you do when the answers just bring about more questions? Ziva has abandoned her past and now has to find her place in an uncertain future. Tony's found his feet in the present but is about to be hit with a blast from his past. Everyone else is trying to deal with the fallout as best they can.

**Disclaimer**: The trained monke- uh, _writers... _over at Bellisario et al (or whoever's running the show these days) own the characters and settings, and most likely a few of the references. Though sometimes I'm sorely tempted to confiscate the lot for gross misuse of canon and reverse character development. Yeah, SB, I'm lookin' at you and your 'shocking development' anvils of doooom.

* * *

_ Prologue._

_****_

They wait on the glistening tarmac as the plane roars overhead, beginning its descent in a scream of engines that cuts through the cold Washington morning like a knife. Abby shifts her weight in nervous anticipation and turns to McGee with a worried frown.

"We should have bought flowers or something," she says, biting her black-stained lip. Her voice wavers slowly up through the registers into something approaching a whine. "Timmy, why didn't you remind me about the flowers? I told you to text me! I was going to stop by the florist, but I forgot, and now we have nothing to give Ziva…"

McGee shades his eyes against the muted glare and studies her. "Tony said she didn't want us to make a fuss, Abs. You know Ziva. She's not… I think she'd just be embarrassed if we made a big deal out of this." Abby twists a pigtail fiercely, unconvinced.

He tries again, casting a helpless glance toward Ducky. "We're here," he says gently, pulling her hand away from her hair. "I'm pretty sure that will be enough. Just… relax, okay?"

She glares at him. Oops. Wrong thing to say to someone who's probably been mainlining Caf-Pow since the early hours of the morning.

"Abigail," Ducky cuts in reassuringly, "I believe what Tim is trying to say is that our presence here will be enough. Ziva has never been one for demonstrative gestures, or gifts, and it is likely that she is still somewhat fragile after her ordeal, not to mention the hours of travelling."

McGee tries not to frown as Ducky repeats everything he just said… but far more eloquently. An award winning writer who can't even string a sentence together. If his adoring fans could see him now, his publisher would be flooded with refund requests.

Abby stops her nervous bouncing with concerted effort as the private plane touches down and begins the slow taxi towards them. The runway is deserted save for the small white plane approaching their ragged little group. McGee can't help but be a little nervous.

Gibbs hasn't said much in their few brief conversations, but from what he can gather Ziva is still very much at the beginning of the long road to full recovery. If it hadn't been for Director David's insistence that they leave Egypt as soon as possible, the doctor at the North Base Camp probably never would have cleared her to travel in the first place.

There's something to be said for Mossad-style intimidation, he thinks idly as the plane shudders to a stop in front of them and the pilot cuts the engines. After a beat, during which Abby tries unsuccessfully to suppress a squeak of excitement and Ducky's face spreads in a slow smile, the main door slides smoothly downwards and a silver-haired figure appears in the opening.

"Gibbs!" Abby says eagerly, moving forward faster than anyone wearing such ridiculously high boots should move. He steps onto the tarmac and braces himself for the inevitable. "Permission to hug?" she asks, a split-second before launching herself at him.

"What'd I tell you about asking permission, Abs?" he says gruffly, squeezing her and then stepping back to look at them. "McGee. Heard you've been making yourself useful down in the sub-basement. Hope you're not considering a transfer."

In an odd Gibbs-like way, it's a compliment. Or… that's how he's choosing to take it, anyway.

"Boss," McGee says by way of greeting, wondering if it's just the long flight or the past few weeks that have carved deeper lines on Gibbs' newly tanned face. "It was just a temporary arrangement."

"Good," Gibbs replies. "Gonna need all hands on deck. We're one short, and I hear we already have a case."

"Uh…we do?" Off Gibbs' look, "Oh – the Michaelson investigation. Right. Well, Agent Yates is here for a few more days. I told her to handle it."

"You _told_ her," Gibbs says with a shade of approval. "Better un-tell her, Elf Lord. Expect to see you in the squadroom by 1100. Clear?"

"You got it, Boss," McGee replies quickly, his eyes straying to the door of the plane where Tony has appeared, looking tanned and slightly… frayed around the edges. Dream vacation destination, Egypt is obviously not. Or at least, not the part of Egypt the rest of his team were visiting.

Visiting is really not the right word.

"Mind giving me a hand here, McGiggle?"

McGee doesn't get the chance to answer, as a backpack comes hurtling from the top of the steps. He only barely manages to catch it, planting his feet to avoid knocking Ducky and Gibbs over. Tony smirks a little at him from the doorway. "Guess you were too busy running one-boy tactical assault teams online to play much catch as a kid."

It's kind of comforting to think that some things never change.

He's barely finished the thought when Tony moves to the side and Ziva steps out gingerly into the grey light of the morning, waving off Tony's offered hand and making her way slowly down the steps.

Beside him, Abby draws in a ragged breath, and Ziva looks up warily, hesitating on the second to last step. McGee's eyes flick to Tony, who is watching Ziva with an expression that is tender, worried and fiercely protective all at the same time.

Her skin is paler than normal underneath the blue and purple bruising that covers most of the left side of her face and blooms under both of her eyes like smudged mascara. The hand not gripping the railing is encased in plaster and more or less immobile, swollen and equally bruised fingers poking out above the bone-white cast.

He knows there are probably other injuries hidden under the clothes she wears to cover her too-thin body, but he doesn't want to think about them just now in what should be a joyous moment. Just like he chooses to ignore the implications of her wearing what is obviously Tony's Ohio State t-shirt.

And yet…

McGee can't help but stare at her cropped hair, a few stray curls whipping wildly around her face in the wind. She looks young and shy and suddenly not at all intimidating. No longer the regal White Witch, she is Aslan the lion; stripped of his great and glorious mane and tied to the sacrificial stone, waiting to accept whatever fate throws at her.

The comparison makes him shiver, and Ziva's eyes meet his slowly at the involuntary movement. He smiles in what he hopes is a welcoming way, because really, he couldn't be happier to have her back. Even if he doesn't quite know how to show it without making the fuss she didn't want.

Perhaps he should have thought to remind Abby about the flowers after all.

"Ziva!" Abby says in a bright voice, rushing forward and then stopping inches away from the ex-Mossad Officer. "Can I… I mean, will it hurt you if I…" she falters. Ziva smiles slightly and steps down onto solid ground, Tony close behind her but not close enough to crowd. McGee watches Ziva's face soften as Abby folds her into a tentative hug, babbling all the while about Egypt and missing her and oddly, something about an Aunt Barbara.

He's not sure what that's about, but Ziva seems to understand, as does Tony who snorts less than subtly.

She bears the affection with her usual grace, though for a moment he thinks he sees her eyes shine a little too brightly. Blinking rapidly, she pulls back and meets his eyes with a clear gaze. He puts it down to his overactive imagination.

"Hey, Ziva," Tim says, unable to hide the grin that splits his face. "Good to have you back. Both of you," he adds after a minute. "It's just not a normal day at the office without the threat of being glued to something."

It's a lame attempt, but it does the trick, and they bask in the shared laughter for a long moment before Tony slips an arm casually around Ziva's shoulders. She tenses at the contact, but doesn't move away.

"C'mon, sweet cheeks," he says easily, "Your chariot awaits."

Ducky is suddenly at her side, a wheelchair at the ready. Ziva frowns at it silently, the bruises on her face twisting and melding in a way that must hurt like a –

"I am not an invalid," she says in a way that tells McGee they've had this argument before. He fights to hide his grin, because that tone generally means that she's getting ready to hurt something and despite her currently unclear status as a gun-happyfederal agent, he doesn't doubt for a minute that she has a knife concealed on her person somewhere.

"My dear, I am afraid it is quite a trek to the car and you look exhausted from your trip, so we had thought that – " Ducky starts, and she sighs resignedly and sits down with a scowl. Tony looks on with a triumphant expression on his face which fades quickly as she kicks him in the shin.

"Uncalled for," he yelps, "especially since I let you sleep sprawled all over me on the plane without _once_ kicking you out of my personal space or complaining about the snoring. Next time I'll take the bed all for myself."

"There's a _bed_ in there?" Abby asks, eyeing the plane with interest.

"Didn't _quite_ live up to the Austin Powers standard of cabin décor, but yeah, there is something that could be classed as a bed." Tony says with a wistful sigh. "One step up from a hospital bed, at least. Six steps from a lumpy mattress on the floor."

"You are just disappointed that it did not rotate when you sprawled on it," she shoots back. Abby hovers close by, almost close enough to touch her, as though she's worried that if she can't anchor Ziva to the earth she'll disappear off the face of it.

_She almost did_, he reminds himself bluntly.

"You two keep this up, I'll give you something to rotate on," Gibbs says from a few feet away. "McGee, did I make myself clear what time you were required at NCIS today?"

"Uh, 1100, Boss, but it's only…"

"My watch might not be set to Washington time, McGee, but that doesn't mean I can't see yours. Stock prices improve in the last few weeks?"

McGee pulls his jacket down over his latest indulgence awkwardly. His publisher is negotiating a movie deal, but he's not quite ready to reveal that piece of information yet… if only to spare them all Tony's inevitable musing over his top casting choices for Agent Tommy.

Tommy… _Tony_ grabs his arm with a grin, pushing up his sleeve and studying the timepiece. "Tag Heuer Aquaracer. Not a big fan of the blue face, but whatever works for you, McGemcity. _The Continuing Adventures of LJ Tibbs_ are in fact continuing then?"

"Actually, the next one's all about Agent Tommy," McGee replies as they head for the parking lot, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing at Tony's sudden hopeful look. "Tired of his fast-paced crime fighting life, he joins a religious sect in Tibet and sets about healing himself through quiet contemplation and goat-tending."

Ziva sputters out a laugh at the expression on Tony's face, wincing at the jarring of her ribs. "I do not like goats," she says quickly, and they all pretend to ignore the ragged edge to her voice. "Perhaps sheep would be a better choice?"

"Agent Tommy in the Australian outback; wearing an Akubra with corks dangling from the brim," McGee muses, more to distract from her discomfort than for any other reason. "The idea has merit."

"He'll need a bigger knife," Gibbs cuts in, and they blink at him. "What?"

"You don't know who Magneto is, but you've seen Crocodile Dundee?" Tony says disbelievingly. "You cut me deep, Boss."

"You'll recover, DiNozzo. Or at least, you better, and damn quick." He tosses Tony the keys to the Charger and McGee frowns, wondering when Gibbs took them from his jacket pocket. "0700 Monday, and be grateful you're getting the weekend."

"Got it, Boss," Tony says smartly, popping the trunk and tossing their bags inside carelessly. McGee figures they must have discussed Ziva's temporary accommodation on the plane, because she pushes herself up from the wheelchair slowly, her teeth sinking into her lip.

"Ziva," Gibbs says as she pushes past Tony firmly and opens the door herself. She turns her battered face to them and McGee forces himself not to wince. "He pisses you off too much with his movie rambling, my offer still stands." She nods and folds herself awkwardly into the passenger seat, her hand hovering near her ribs protectively.

It's easy to ignore the events of the last few weeks in the face of all the banter. McGee suspects that that's what Gibbs and Tony were aiming for, and while he's glad of the hint that things might go back to how they were, a little voice whispers in his ear that it's all just a bit _too _easy, it should be harder than this to fall back into their old patterns.

It should be harder than this to forget.

Relieved of her Ziva duty, Abby steps closer to Gibbs instead, signing something that makes his mouth tighten in what McGee thinks might be contemplative displeasure. Or maybe it's just the writer in him putting complicated words to simple things.

Loss. Grief. Pain. Love.

Simple words for complicated things.

Ziva's eyes meet his as the car roars to life – perceptive as always – and her careful measured gaze is shaded with something dark and infinitely sad. Her lips curl slightly but the smile doesn't touch her eyes, as though she's exhausted her ability to make believe this is the happy ending rather than the beginning of a whole new journey.

McGee wonders idly if little Israeli children (_especially_ children named David) hear fairytales at bedtime, or if she grew up hearing stories of missions and weapons and loyalty to ones country. Somehow, he doubts that her father told her fanciful stories about princesses and mermaids and love conquers all.

"Uh, Boss?" he says as something occurs to him. "Tony just drove off in our one car. How are _we _getting back to the office?"

He's almost disappointed that he doesn't feel a palm on the back of his head. He's a creature of habit, after all, and he thinks he understands now what Tony meant in the wake of Kate's death about the unreality of Gibbs being nice.

Half-wanting it and expecting it are two different things, and though McGee can't help but flinch at the delayed smack, he still has to turn away to hide his smile.

In hindsight, it probably wasn't a bad idea to 'forget' about the flowers.

* * *

_Hope you can forgive me for posting what is essentially an epilogue as the start of a new story. The next chapter will pick up a good few weeks down the track, but we needed a bridging scene between the two periods. Hence the faux-prologue. _

_As always, reviews and anything else you might feel the need to send my way are very much appreciated. Thanks for reading!_ ;)


	2. A Grin Without a Cat

**Author's Note:** Apologies for the delay - parts of this have been sitting on my hard drive for awhile - but as you might have noticed if you have me on Author Alert, my muse was somewhat... _distracted_... by the Season 7 premiere. Forgive me?

Chapter begins three weeks _after_ the prologue. There won't be flashbacks as such, but things from those missing weeks will be explained as we progress. There's some groundwork to lay before we get into the meat of the story, so patience is appreciated. :)

Hope you enjoy!

* * *

_Chapter One: A Grin Without a Cat.  
_

There are at least a dozen things Abby should be working on right now. Ballistics testing, cataloguing evidence ready for the Anstey trial, analysing the highball glass from the Walton case for traces of GHB…

Yep, now is really not the best time to be socializing, especially not with a medical examiner who likely has his own exhaustive list of tasks to complete.

"You know what the problem is, Ducky?"

"Enlighten me, my dear."

Silence falls, punctuated by the gentle hum of the mass spectrometer and the scrape of a straw through a plastic lid. Abby shifts her weight back and forth, the chains draped from her plaid skirt sounding out her sudden uncertainty. "I was hoping you'd know," she sighs. "It's been three weeks, Ducky, three weeks of – nothing."

Ducky frowns. "Surely you have – "

"Seen Ziva? Sure." The truth, but not the whole truth, so help her God. "Seen her, hugged her, hung out at Tony's while he tries too hard to make jokes and Ziva does her best Mona Lisa impression. I even dragged her shopping for new clothes, which was almost normal – she still won't go into Hot Topic on threat of…" Unable to say the word, she trails off, biting her lip. "Well, that hasn't changed. But I didn't think it would be so… it's just like when Kate died!"

"I'm not sure I follow." But Ducky gives her the look that means the complete opposite, and she can't decide whether to scowl or smile because sometimes he's more like Gibbs than he'll ever admit.

Just when she really needs a story, he has to go and make her figure it out for herself, dammit.

Abby sets her Caf-Pow down on the stainless steel table and starts pacing in slow circles. "Ziva showed up, and she wasn't Kate, and I hated her for it. Well, maybe not hate, because hate is for power suits and evil lab assistants and people who call me ma'am, but I didn't _want_ to like her."

She completes another lap, her even footsteps a counterpoint to the uneven stream of words. "All cocky and not-fitting and _not __Kate_, and at first she rubbed me up the wrong way so hard it left skid marks, but… after awhile she grew on me like _Cladosporium_. And I don't really know what happened to her in Africa because Tony's gone all Fight Club about it and Gibbs – well, he's not one for sharing anyway, which I understand, but it's like they brought back a completely different person, and I keep saying the wrong thing and…"

She stops dead in front of Ducky, who is watching her with a mixture of quiet patience and wariness. "I'm really not making much sense here, and _whoa_, starting to think that maybe that fourth Caf-Pow was a mistake and – "

"Enough," he interrupts gently. Pats her hand. "I am not Ziva's primary care physician, Abby, but I _have_ looked over her medical records – and while not exhaustive on the subject, they give me a fairly clear indication of what she must have been through. Dr Angelou from the North Base Camp medical facility was certainly concerned about the possible onset of post traumatic stress symptoms. Do you – "

"Uh-huh," Abby says quickly. She can deal with science talk, even medical science talk. It's familiar ground. "Well, I looked it up on Journal Watch. Do you think Ziva's doctor at Bethesda has read the latest research, because there's a psychiatrist in Buffalo who has done studies on the effectiveness of Prazosin – "

"I'm sure that Dr Kochler has ample experience with treating victims of traumatic incidents, my dear."

Abby blinks like a chastised child. "Oh. Right. I was just – see, this is what I mean! You're reading her records, Tony's giving her a place to stay and watching her six, McGee… well, McGee's covering for Tony so that he can leave early without Gibbs knowing, and Gibbs is – " Pigtails whip as she turns to peer through the empty doorway, " – apparently not living up to his normal standard of mind-reading tricks, otherwise he'd be coming out of the elevator right now."

"Or it's an especially good Houdini day and he's been here for the last two minutes," a familiar dry voice says in her ear, making her jump. She wonders idly if it would be a violation of the Hippocratic Oath if she bribed Ducky to implant some kind of tracking device under his skin, sort of like the microchip his furry namesake has in the back of _his_ neck.

"You got anything, Abs?"

"Other than an overdeveloped sense of helpless guilt?" she asks without looking at either of them. "Nope." Wanting to prove she's actually doing something, Abby points at the sound-recognition software running busily on the overhead monitor. "There are over literally thousands of possibilities that could match the background noise we pulled from the mystery burn phone. It's only been an hour, Gibbs, and I'm fresh out of miracles for the day."

"Jethro," Ducky ventures, "Have you had the chance to speak to the Director at all? It might go a long way in reassuring Ziva that she is wanted here."

"Won't make much of a difference, Duck," Gibbs replies, and his words practically suck the caffeine buzz right out of Abby's brain. He looks at her briefly then takes a deep breath. "Without US citizenship and without a relationship with Mossad, it doesn't matter how many strings Vance is willing to pull – SecNav will never allow it. Assuming she even _wants_ to come back to NCIS, and you know how I feel about assumptions."

"Much the same way you feel about coincidences, I suppose."

Abby just gapes at Gibbs for a second. "Of course she's coming back!" she says furiously, refusing to believe what Gibbs just said. Ducky touches her arm gently and she shakes him off. An idea forms. Hitting the power button on her second monitor, Abby turns to face Ducky and Gibbs. "There must be a loophole somewhere that we can slip her through, and I'm going to make like Bubba sticking his black and tan nose into the rabbit hole - and find it. Abby's Caffeine-Fuelled Adventures in Wonderland. And, speaking of…"

"Behind you, Abs,"

The empty cup she left on the table has magically refilled itself and she intends to ask Gibbs how he did it, but her computer prompts for a password with an indignant beep and by the time she's typed it in and turned around the lab is empty. At least she's solved her dilemma about what to get Ducky for his birthday – a bell just like the one Gibbs has sitting on his desk.

She wonders if Palmer might be easier to bribe.

"Okay, Team Abby," she says brightly, pleased at finally having something to make her feel useful. "Time to find an iron-clad way to keep Ziva where she belongs."

* * *

Up in the squadroom, Tony pounds out a soft, slightly manic beat on the three square inches of his desk not covered by paperwork.

Wait. Not _his_ desk. Ziva's desk. Somehow it seemed wrong to let it be taken over by a temporary agent, even if she's never coming back to NCIS. Which they still don't know, given Vance's point-blank refusal to discuss it. Bastard.

Plus, he can see the stairs from here and thanks to his discreetly rigged mirror system, he has an excellent reflected view of the elevator doors. Just in case Gibbs feels the need to sneak up behind him while he's doing something he shouldn't be, or isn't doing something he should. Like clearing his desk of the forms and reports that he's been putting off reading all week.

_Should have shown more support for McGee's 'digital revolution' plan, DiNozzo, _he thinks idly, using a broken chopstick from yesterday's lunch to hit random objects on the desk. He's searching for a sound.

Well, _Abby_ is searching for a sound. Tony's searching for the perfect combination of office supplies to flesh out his own personal one-agent percussion ensemble, while simultaneously timing how long it takes Keating to crack from the annoyance of the noise. Given the way he's grinding his teeth at the moment, it won't take much longer.

The junior agent is even more green than the original Probie was, though he has his own moments of brilliance and a certain dogged enthusiasm to prove that he belongs as a Field Agent rather than a desk jockey. He also has a certain DiNozzo-esque knack for coming up with pranks that is entirely unexpected in someone who looks… well, like a geek.

All in all, there are worse agents to be temporarily stuck with, but each time Keating trips over his own shadow or quotes the NCIS field regulations it only serves to remind Tony of how much he wishes someone else was sitting at the desk he's unofficially taken over.

"Tony…" Keating says now through gritted teeth. "Is there any chance that you could…"

"Nope," Tony says without looking up.

"Oh. Okay then."

He waits just long enough to make it look like he _isn't_ giving in, then stops drumming and flexes his fingers. Thirteen minutes, twenty-six seconds. Keating has more patience than Tony gave him credit for.

Or perhaps just a higher level of fear of annoying his Senior Field Agent and winding up assigned to desk work for the foreseeable future. In true Gibbs style, Tony hasn't bothered to tell Keating that he actually has no authority over team assignments. It's much more fun to watch him fumble and sweat.

It's like a never-ending rerun of Revenge of the Nerds around here at the moment. If this keeps up, Tony might have to give in and learn to speak Geek. He misses speaking Ninja. Misspoken idioms and vague teasing threats of harm to his person – all coloured with a tiny hint of smug. Hell, he even misses the prickle on the back of his neck that usually means Ziva's standing behind him, about to invade his personal space.

There's not much invading of anything these days.

In fact, they barely even look at each other. Certainly not in the same charged way that they used to once upon a time. Oh, she's trying with everything in her to pretend that she's fine. Sometimes it hurts to see how hard she tries. But the wounds are undeniably raw, and since they got back she's been avoiding his clumsy attempts to get her to open up. And Tony understands.

Really, he does.

Still, there are things that he wants to say to Ziva, _has_ to say, but he can't bring himself to do it just yet. Even after three weeks of sleeping under the same roof, cooking and watching movies and chatting idly about the present. They talk about current events and how her doctors are impressed by her progress, and sometimes about cases the MCRT are working on. The last, she usually bears with a funny little half-smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes – it slides from her face like butter from a warm knife, like she's only_ just_ bearing the reminder of how things used to be.

He jokes about Keating's latest exploits and McGee's attempts to hide the fact that the rights to _Deep Six: The Movie_ have been bought by Universal. He avoids mentioning Abby's refusal to return Broom Ziva to the janitor's closet just yet, or that sometimes McGee glances up at her desk and can't quite hide his surprise at seeing Tony sitting there.

Tony never tells her that the walls between his bedroom and hers are surprisingly thin, or that she's not fooling anyone when he asks her how she slept and she says 'fine' with that same half-smile. He pretends not to hear her moving slowly around the apartment during the night, or hovering in his doorway indecisively – the opposite of everything she has ever been, strong and sure and unflappable.

They don't talk about the future, and they definitely don't talk about the past.

Instead, he cracks bad jokes and quotes movies and clenches his fists with the effort not to reach out and touch her slowly-growing hair, because in the before it used to make her smile.

He's not entirely sure what he expected to happen when they got back to Washington, but they've deviated from the script somewhere along the line and he can't find his updated copy. He tries to figure out his lines by watching her face, but she's always been hard to read and now – in the after – she's like an unabridged copy of War and Peace. In Swahili.

"Any leads?" he asks finally (more to shock himself back into work mode than from any real hope of something having turned up during his vague-out). The junior agent jumps at the interruption and then looks stricken for a moment. "Relax. I'm not going to bite your head off, Danny."

"Daniel," Keating corrects quickly, and Tony raises an eyebrow in his general direction. "Uh, Danny is a child's name. "

He makes a mental note of that. "Danny Ocean. Danny Zuko. Danny Bhoy. Granted, the last is a stretch, but I'm still not really seeing the Sesame Street element here. But whatever. Leads?"

The silence says it all.

Tony sighs. Gibbs is going to rip someone a new one over this, and by _someone_, Tony means _him_, since the person in charge always takes the blame. That's just how the game works. Gibbs' rules must supersede themselves, because he's sure that there's one about always working as a team, and yet they haven't really been a team for months, maybe longer. And not just because of the seating arrangements in the squad room.

A tip-off about a planned robbery at a Norfolk storage facility just over three weeks ago led local LEO's to a cache of weapons, ammunition and sundry supplies, most of which were clearly Navy-issue. Vance was concerned about connections with terrorist groups or perhaps a major crime ring – either way, the theft and potential misuse of Navy property was great enough to get the MCRT assigned the case. Keating tried to explain exactly why in far too many words, but after he heard the now-familiar phrase ("NCIS regulations state that…") he tuned out until the Very Junior Field Agent got the hint and started nattering at McGee instead.

"So we've got nothing," Tony says needlessly.

"Well, we found out that…" Keating stops, thinks and then shakes his head. "Yeah. We got nothing."

Desperate times call for desperate measures, then. "Campfire, Keating," he says firmly, pushing his chair into the centre of the bullpen and looking expectantly at the junior agent. "What, you think I'm wheeling around to improve the muscle tone in my legs? Hardly. Move!"

Keating moves so quickly he almost tips himself over backwards. "Don't we need the, uh, the rest of the team?"

"Well, our fearless leader is off somewhere either raising hell or getting a refill, and McGeek is out following up the surveillance tapes from U-Store-It, so it looks like it's just you and me, alone in the bullpen on a…" Tony looks out the window with a frown, "cold and rainy morning. Official campfire rules state that only two agents need to be present, otherwise I'd be talking to myself, and I can do that from my desk. Now. What do we know?"

Papers shuffle as Keating looks for the right page, the tip of his tongue darting out from his mouth in concentration. "We, uh, couldn't trace the owner of the locker, the owner signed up online and it's one of those self-contained places, you enter your code at the gate and then drive right to your locker. The surveillance cameras in the area were broken three days prior to the tip-off and fixed the morning that the LEO's raided the place. "

"Which is convenient for the dealers, but not so much for Barney Rent-a-Cop in the Security office."

"Actually, his name is Barnaby Rentacol…" Tony just stares at him, his fingers twitching reflexively. "But you knew that."

"What else, Agent Obvious?"

"Uh, the weapons and other devices found included – " Keating begins to read from a long list of too-familiar names and calibres. Tony's learnt more about the arms trade in three weeks than he really ever wanted to know, though the irony of him somehow becoming an almost-expert in the workings of arms dealers makes him cringe.

He wonders sometimes if Gibbs handed the task off to him on purpose, and thinks with a touch of bitterness that he's somehow never going to leave Jeanne entirely behind him, just like Gibbs could never quite hide the lights of Paris in his eyes when he looked at Jenny.

"The tipoff was made anonymously from an unregistered cell phone – uh, _burn phone_ - that we recovered in the trash at a gas station a mile from U-Store-It. Abby and Agent McGee have tried voice analysis, GPS signal positioning, surveillance camera footage from a nearby gas station… nothing. We have no idea who made that call or how deeply they were involved." Keating pauses briefly, his lips twitching nervously. "And, uh, why are we going through all of this again?"

"It's all about the context, Danny. Finding the answer to the riddles. _Why is a raven like a writing desk_?" Tony asks, hiding his grin at Keating's confused blink. "Never mind. So we've got a cache of stored weapons, mostly Navy-issue. What does your gut tell you?"

"Well, whoever it is must have some connection to the Navy, specifically access to the armoury, so if I pull the files of personnel based in Washington and cross reference…"

"Time is money, Keating, and you're using a whole lot of three dollar words there. You'll owe me your first born by the end of the week. Campfire over," Tony says as he clicks the recorder off. "Hop to it!"

The only anomaly on the recording itself is an odd clinking sound. Abby's tracing her way through various audio databases and whatever else she uses, to see if they can locate the origin and maybe pinpoint the place where the caller was standing at the time, in vague hope of getting a decent description from _somewhere_.

There are far too many vague hopes and assumptions for Tony to be at ease, though the drumming is distracting him from his circling thoughts. Huh. He didn't even realise he'd started again, on the side of McGee's desk this time. Maybe he should apologise to – no, wouldn't do to have Keating thinking he was... is soft the right word here?

Not at work, anyway. Actually, not even outside of work – or at least, not very often and definitely not in public.

Life after Egypt has slowly returned to something resembling normal, or if not entirely normal, then at least something familiar. Something that they can work with, like a classic movie targeted for a remake by money-hungry Hollywood. Someone makes a movie or a television show (or a life)… and the original is pretty close to excellent, though it has its flaws like anything else.

Then someone else decides that what the movie really needed was more drama, or a different slant on things, or a spot of torture and intrepid adventure to spice up the plotline and bam! _The Ziva and Tony Show_, version 2.0. As with most remakes, it's always a gamble whether you're going to strike oil or a sewage pipe.

It's King Kong versus Planet of the Apes – Naomi Watts in a white dress, or Helena Bonham Carter in really bad primate makeup.

No contest there.

Some days he wonders who's pulling the strings in this puppet show. He spins his chair around and does a little marionette-monkey imitation, much to Keating's confusion and sudden visible trepidation, which probably means…

"DiNozzo!"

Dammit.

He forgot to keep an eye on the catwalk near MTAC. That being said, at least the Boss can't sneak up directly behind him anymore, because another agent's workspace backs onto Tony's now. Which had nothing at all to do with why he switched desks, of course.

"Yeah, Boss?"

"Quit monkeying around down there and get back to work."

Maybe Abby's onto something with the 'Gibbs as psychic' theory.

"Just waiting for a contact at Metro Police Department to return my calls, Boss!"

As if on cue, the phone on his desk starts ringing.

Tony's not the praying kind, but he takes a moment to send out positive thoughts into the universe anyway. Gibbs looks vaguely impressed for a moment, then shrugs and heads for the stairs. Keating looks downright surprised at the impeccable timing of the call, but hides it well – four seconds too late. If there were a catchphrase for the Junior Agent, that would be it. Four seconds too late.

Tony waits until Gibbs has entered the bullpen, then picks up the phone with a flourish.

"Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo is unable to take your call right now," he says crisply, shooting a triumphant smirk at Keating. "Please leave a message after the – "

"Women actually fall for that fake message schtick?" a gruff voice interrupts before he can finish. "Wait. Don't answer that. I don't want to know."

"And yet you called me, Jack, so deep down you must be just a little bit curious."

On the other end, the Head of Security chuckles under his breath, a pack-a-day wheeze just evident around the edges of his laugh. Tony is curious despite himself. "What's going on down there? Run out of donuts already?"

There's a pregnant pause, just long enough for Tony to wonder who came up with that particular figure of speech. Across the bullpen, Keating is staring at him, and Tony almost groans as he replays his half of the conversation in his head.

"No, wiseass," comes the reply. "Got a surprise visitor for you, actually."

"If it's a singing gorilla, I'm going to be very unimpressed," he says, glaring at Keating just in case. He's wondering why the security officer suddenly felt the need to call. "You've been here longer than _me_, Jack. You need me to tell you how to do a strip search again?"

"Well, that's the problem, Tony," Jack says, lowering his voice to what almost qualifies as a whisper. "They… uh, she doesn't want to come up." Someone murmurs in the background, and Jack's voice lowers again, making Tony strain to hear above the usual squad room noise. "It's Officer David."

Ah.

"Just Ziva, Jack," he hears Ziva say in the background. Her voice is strained, though whether it's because of the doubly unwelcome name or whatever it is that's brought her to the Navy Yard in the first place, Tony can't tell.

Curiouser and curiouser.

"Keep her there," he says quickly, then realises what he's said. Jack's no novice, but Tony's not entirely sure that Ziva won't react… badly… to feeling trapped, and neither of them deserve that. "Well, ask her very nicely to stick around, if you have to. I'll be right down."

He hangs up, pointedly ignoring Gibbs' hawk-eyed gaze.

"Did Metro police bring in a suspect for us to interrogate?" Keating asks a little too eagerly, reaching for his badge and gun.

Tony winces, and from the corner of his eye he sees Gibbs' hand twitch slightly. "_Interview_, Keating."

Gibbs eyes him steadily for a moment, then tilts his head meaningfully toward the elevator and raises an eyebrow. Tony doesn't pause to ask for clarification, just gathers his cell and wallet and starts for the exit.

"Sorry. I could've sworn I heard somebody… Hey, where are you going?"

Tony's not entirely sure how much Keating knows – they've done their best to keep their time in Africa from reaching the gossip-hungry masses, but who knows what squadroom scuttlebutt is about where he and Gibbs disappeared to on their simultaneous 'vacation'. Either way, now's really not the time.

"Going to a party, Mom. Lots of alcohol, no parental supervision. Possibly strippers. I'll take pictures for you. Don't wait up, okay?"

"But – "

Tony spins on his heel and walks backward toward the elevator, levelling Keating with DiNozzo Stare #3: _No Questions_. "I've got my cell. Try not to set anything on fire."

"I never – "

Keating's protests are drowned out by the slam of the stairwell door.

His cell starts buzzing before he's even made it down one flight, and he checks the display with a sigh. "You need another refill already, Boss?"

"I want you back in the squadroom by 1400, DiNozzo," Gibbs says, and Tony checks his watch, stopping briefly on the flat section between floors. 1309. Hopefully plenty of time. Gibbs' voice softens by degrees. "Ziva allowed to drive yet?"

"Not until the cast comes off in two weeks, Boss."

"Right. 1430 then, and not a minute after. Don't need to remind you about rule three, do I?"

Gibbs is being nice again, and that unnerves Tony more than the threat of punishment if he dares to be late back to work. Normally, just leaving the bullpen for a personal matter is enough for Gibbs to get that '_Off with his head!_' look in his eye. Gibbs being nice means that there's something wrong here, and Tony's not entirely sure – given his abysmal record so far – that he's the one to fix it. Still, she came to the Navy Yard and asked for _him_. That has to mean something, right?

"DiNozzo!"

"Ten-four, Boss. Drive Ziva home. Keep cell on. Don't be late back. Over and out."

He hangs up without waiting for a response, starting down the stairs again with a frown. Gibbs being nice generally means trouble for someone, and with Tony's track record, it's probably going to be him. As if on cue, the phone rings again. He doesn't bother with a greeting this time, just stops and breathes and waits for the inevitable.

"Remember what I told you when we got home, Tony?"

"Yeah Boss," he replies, thinking of awkward silences and clumsy questions without the weight of conviction behind them. _Don't push her_, Gibbs had warned under his breath as Ziva climbed into the Charger, and he's tried to follow the not-quite-order, gritting his teeth against everything he wants to ask…

Gibbs clears his throat, each word low but distinct. "Might be a good time to 'forget' that I said that."

* * *

_As always, reviews are appreciated and adored. Go on. Feed the beast. :)_


	3. Thimbles and Clocks

**A/N:** Two thumbs down for the slow torturous descent into the end of the university academic year and the sudden influx of assignments that have prevented me from doing much non-academic writing.

Slight warning for possible dark themes and suggestions of torture, but nothing particularly beyond a normal NCIS episode.

Hope you enjoy, and a heartfelt thanks to all those who have reviewed so far.

* * *

_Chapter Two: Thimbles and Clocks_

For almost four years Ziva passed by the security desk on the way up to the squadroom.

Short tense strides and squared proud shoulders the first few times, as though someone might shout after her, tell her that she had no place here. In the beginning, she did not, and then suddenly (the flick of a knife, the twist of a satisfied smile over subdued men lying face down on the ground near an iron casket) she did, and the new and fragile knowledge that she belonged slowed her step and allowed her to return the security guard's smile.

In the middle, she learnt that his name was Jack, that he had a weakness for cinnamon rolls (donuts are apparently 'too cop', though it never stopped Tony from making jokes), and that his little girl believed her Daddy was a superhero.

_Enjoy it while it lasts,_ she had wanted to tell him, but didn't.

The day that marked the beginning of the end (or the end of the beginning), she had smiled absently at him on her way out the door into the dark night, registered that he had said something but not exactly what he had said, like a flickering reel from a silent movie. Her heart was filled with ominous beating (_mi-chael mi-chael mi-chael), _acid burning up from her gut and sealing her throat shut. Unsteady fingers already dialling from memory a number that she had hoped she would never again have to call.

And now? Being back in Washington feels like repeating a game she has already played, but with different rules that nobody has bothered to explain before throwing her onto the board to bounce and scatter and never quite roll the right number of moves. New game, new rules to live by.

Rule six. Always be on your guard.

Rule fourteen. Smile.

Rules twenty through twenty-two. Engage, relate, concentrate, even if it makes your head ache with the strain. Twenty three. Remind yourself that you are _fine_, and if perhaps you are not, you will be _soon_ and so there's no need to concern anyone in the meantime.

Ziva sits and waits in tense silence, a dog-eared copy of Reader's Digest open on her lap. The words swim and blur, an article about deep-sea fisherman on the Texas Gulf Coast. She keeps her eyes firmly fixed on the page, the occasional word leaping from the black-and-white. Hook. Bait. Trap.

She's not sure whether it's the much-despised fog of painkillers, the distractions in the article, or being here in the building for the first time in months, but the words she has so carefully planned begin to unravel and fade. They drift as she drifts, floating in and out of focus in a way that terrifies her and yet reaffirms the necessity of the mask.

One dropped stitch and the whole garment unravels. One display of weakness to seize upon and tug at until she breaks. Everything breaks eventually, bones and mind and heart. This she knows.

There is one thing to be said for her current position – however uncomfortable the chair is, at least it is half-hidden from passersby by a giant leafy fern in a blue-glazed pot, possibly the least exposed section in the L-shaped foyer. Ziva watches from behind the fronds, not hiding per se, just… avoiding the possibility of random encounters with the well-meaning agents that pass by. Unlike Tony, who will talk to anyone, she was never particularly social with the other agents (and they in turn shied away, having heard of her reputation) and there is even less reason to begin now.

Her still-healing wrist throbs in time with her heart, as though under the plaster and skin and muscle the bones are grating in protest at her being here. Here or there or anywhere that is not bare and filthy and thick with the shadows of inevitable death, spilling across the concrete floor, floating like a spectre in the air.

"You want a soda or something?" Jack asks, his voice wary and far away.

Ziva blinks, forces herself to meet his eyes and smile. She has always been good at masks, at making people believe she's something – or more often, someone – she's not, but she is also good at reading people. He tilts his head and she can tell that he's not fooled.

She suspects that perhaps she is not so inscrutable these days.

"Offi – Ziva?"

Ziva wishes Jack wouldn't say her name so loudly. It echoes in the foyer and heads turn in her direction. Whispering voices skitter across the linoleum toward her, people who are familiar and not-so casting curious glances her way. The scrutiny prickles on her skin, sending a wave of sudden unease crashing over her. She lowers her head, feeling the scar on her jaw burn red-hot and angry, betraying her attempt at pretending that everything is as it should be.

"_Such a beautiful face," he says silkily, holding her hair with one firm hand and running filthy fingers along her chin with the other. The sharp sting of a blinding slap, overtaking the pain in her swollen fingers and the weary dull ache in her gut. She has gone four days without food or water, and the world spins dizzily as she tries not to flinch away from the meaningful caress. _

"_You refuse to tell me what I want to know," he says, his voice more menacing than the knife that has appeared in front of her face. "No matter. As the saying goes, there is more than one way to break a horse." He leers at her, looking her up and down._

_The threat is clear. The list of ways that a person can be broken is only limited to imagination and equipment. Ziva knows many of them, has used some and seen more, and not for the first time she wishes she could erase the knowledge that has served her so well in the past. The knife hovers before her left eye, sharp and glinting and so close that she does not dare blink for fear of feeling the sting. _

_Tears form in response to the rasp of his breath on her naked eye, spill down over dirt and bruises and taut trembling flesh, and at his sudden chuckle Ziva is not sure which pain is the greatest – the ache of her body, or the knowledge that he ascribes the moisture to fear. She would rather die than cry in his presence, but her traitorous eyes will not cease their unwelcome spilling and she cannot bring herself to incite him to make any kind of final cut with the wicked blade._

"_Such beauty," he says again, and she is so glad that the knife moves out of her line of sight that when it slices through her cheek the pain is almost meaningless, just another layer upon a world of other hurts._

"Ziva?" A different voice, familiar overtones of uncertainty and a hint of perpetual surprise. Ziva blinks in surprise, pulled sharply from her thoughts and shoved kicking and screaming back into the present. For a moment she does not dare to raise her head. Sensible shoes move into her line of sight, half covered by too-long aqua cotton scrubs. His feet tangle and falter and she can't help but smile.

"Jimmy," Ziva says, raising her eyes to him. Raising and raising, for she had forgotten that he was so tall. He is carrying two cardboard cups in a cardboard holder, glasses slightly fogged from the rising steam. "How are you?"

He grins and shrugs simultaneously. "Oh, keeping out of trouble, just stopped by the coffee shop to pick up refreshments for – " A faint blush rises, colouring his cheeks rosy.

"Doctor Mallard?" Ziva guesses teasingly, fully aware that Ducky is not a coffee drinker. Palmer bites his lip like an adult Harry Potter, as if considering whether or not he really _wants_ to cast that spell outside of Hogwarts and risk expulsion. She takes pity on him. "I am glad you are happy, and if you wish I will not – " Not what? Make elevator-sex jokes? Tell Tony? " – I will keep my hat over it."

The way he blinks tells her without words that she said that wrong, but the nervous energy that surrounded him in the past – around her, at least – falls from him suddenly. "If you have a secret, you keep it_ under_ your hat," he says gently, and Ziva realises that it has been weeks since she intentionally said something wrong to hear Tony correct her. She suddenly misses the smile he sends her when he does it, a hint of smug and a touch of pride at being able to teach _her_ something.

Oh, the things she has learned in the last five years.

"It is the same thing, no?"

"Well, no. I mean, yes, but… oh, never mind." He has not once asked her how she is or what she is doing at the Navy Yard, and whether it's because he does not know how to phrase it or does not need to (having heard it from the others), Ziva is glad of the reprieve. It's ironic how easy it is to fall into old routines when there is no expectation that you will perform to someone's standard of 'fine.' Least of all her own. Jimmy expects nothing and judges even less – she is what (and _how_) she is, and that is enough.

"Do you remember Anna from Payroll? Red hair, uh, Chanel pumps?" The tips of his ears blaze red as his cheeks.

She does not, but his expression tells her enough. "I am glad you are happy," she repeats quietly. The smile that spreads on Jimmy's face is easy and eager, a touch grateful, and it makes the near-constant prickling unease fade for a long moment.

The morgue assistant shifts his weight. "I like your hair," he blurts, and then looks horrified, no doubt remembering exactly what prompted her to have it cut. "Sorry, I meant – I meant…"

"I know what you meant, Jimmy," she says simply, wanting to absolve him of the guilt that he has no reason to bear. She touches the shy curling ends, forcing a smile. "It is certainly more manageable this way." Like the decision to crop off her ponytail was her own.

Tony had taken her to a salon sometime in her first week back in Washington, small and discreet and inviting. The outing had obviously been planned in advance, because the owner herself was waiting for them in the empty salon, petite and friendly, and entirely nonplussed when Ziva hesitated for a long twisting moment before slowly leaning her head back into the basin. The ragged remains of her curls fell silently to the floor as she sat, her good hand fisted tightly under the protective shroud, grateful for her position away from the mirrors that lined the walls.

Ziva has never worn her hair short, bar an unfortunate incident when she was nine and playing 'hairdresser' at Tali's request. Though she rarely bothered to do much with it before the last few years in Washington, it served as both a reminder of her sister's long dark locks and a somewhat useful as a bargaining tool.

Once upon a time, Rapunzel let down her (dark) hair with a carefree laugh, luring countless princes from clubs, bars, crowded areas into somewhere more private, away from prying eyes and milling people who would surely notice if a body suddenly appeared where before there was a man, a traitor marked for death.

Once upon a time, in a land far far away.

Alleys and back rooms and deserted parking lots, and once, in the middle of a drug-addled crowd at a rave, gyrating to a beat that pounded through her body like fists on flesh. He did not scream as he fell, and by the time someone noticed that he had not merely overdosed to the point of unconsciousness Ziva was long gone, slipping through the crowd like a spectre, a hallucination.

Miss Scarlett, on the dance floor of a club whose name she cannot remember, with a loaded hypodermic and a sanction order.

Certainly Tony's eyes had practically beetled – no, _bugged_ -- out on that first day when she had pulled the wrap from her head and shaken out her curls.

Nowadays, the breeze on the back of her neck is a reminder of all the things that have been taken from her. Petty and vain and yet only important because this, unlike the other things, is manageable. She can pretend that when people look at her with poorly-hidden pity in their eyes that it is the lack of hair that they see.

"Anyway," Palmer says suddenly, and Ziva curses her heart for its sudden frightened leap, "I better get back." He reaches out as if to touch her on the shoulder, stops inches shy of contact. Pulls back and offers her an awkward wave instead. "Take care of yourself, Ziva." She tries not to flinch at the phrase, remembering another voice, another touch, another goodbye. Jimmy turns to his right and grins at the figure pushing through the stairwell doors. "Hey, Tony."

"Palmer," Tony greets him with an easy smile. Ziva watches him eye the double cup holder and raise an eyebrow, but (unusually) he does not comment, just nods at the morgue assistant and turns to her with questioning green eyes when Jimmy heads for the elevator, looking back at her with a smile as the doors close.

"Not that I'm not appreciative of you saving me from the wrath of Gibbs," Tony starts as Ziva pushes herself up from the chair, suddenly unable to sit still under his steady gaze, "because you always _did_ have impeccable timing, but didn't you also have an appointment with the Bethesda shrinks at 1300?"

"I did," she says as she heads for the door slowly, slightly surprised that he knew. She has not mentioned it in his presence, as far as she can remember, but then Tony is nothing if not resourceful, his detective skills well-honed over the years. "I decided to play hickey."

"Hooky," Tony supplies with a sidelong glance that quickly turns amused at her feigned innocence. "And you did that on purpose."

"That is the point of playing hooky, yes? To do it knowingly?"

"Well, yeah, but not what I meant, and you know it."

Ziva pulls her jacket tighter around her, though not for the sudden drop in temperature. The breeze on her face is cool but not cold as she leads him toward an unoccupied bench under the trees. They sit and she shifts on the hard surface, thinks briefly of sitting on the grass instead but dismisses the idea, doubting her chances of getting up again without assistance. Tony pretends not to watch her as she looks around, scanning the area quickly and discreetly before leaning back in defiance of her protesting muscles.

"Gibbs only gave me an hour, and I'm on order to drive you home in that time, so… not to rush the big reveal, but to what do I owe this surprise visit?"

"I spoke to your realtor today," Ziva says slowly, unable to look at him. She picks at the battered edges of the cast with her good hand like worrying an itch she cannot reach. "The card was on your fridge, and I thought – "

"Accommodations not up to standard at the Hotel DiNozzo?" Tony says lightly, his face unreadable when she chances a glance toward him. "Damn, I knew I should have left chocolates on your pillow. Or if it was the lack of fresh towels, they're in the hall cupboard under the back issues of Playboy – "

Ziva lets him continue, carefully watching a heavyset man – dark haired, dark skinned, draped in black – walk commandingly up the path toward the Navy Yard. Tense, she tracks him until he disappears through the doors, only half listening to Tony's continued comparison of his apartment to a hotel. This is classic Tony, deflecting his way out of an uncomfortable situation until he can process the meaning of her words.

"And I could've sworn I collected up all the dirty socks, but you never know where they might be hiding… "

"Tony," Ziva interrupts, suddenly unable to listen any longer. Chocolate eyes meet green and hold, and her throat tightens. "The card was not there yesterday, so I assumed that it was there for a reason." She hurries on despite his sudden look of dawning comprehension. "It is perhaps for the best that I find my own apartment anyway. I have taken advantage of your hospitality for long enough."

Tony stares at her, blinking. "The card was there," he says slowly, "because I told a buddy at Baltimore PD that I'd give him Andrea's number. He's just separated from his wife and is hunting for a bachelor pad – probably to fill it with celebratory hookers and beer. Must've forgotten to put it in my wallet this morning."

"Oh," is all Ziva can manage, tearing her eyes away from his because she cannot stand the shades of regret and apology she sees there. Tony stands with enviable ease, offering her his hand and pulling her up slowly when she accepts. Not slowly enough, it seems, because her knee gives way suddenly when she is not quite upright and were it not for Tony's arm snaking quickly around her back, she would have fallen to the grass she suspects is not nearly as soft as it looks. Ziva curses her traitorous body for the umpteenth time.

"Wish Keating was here to witness the proof that women actually fall at my feet," Tony says lightly, his eyes betraying his unspoken concern. She is close enough to smell him, cologne and shampoo and a hint of sweat – a scent unmistakeably Tony – and his hand spreads out just below her shoulder blades, steadying her in a way that is both firm and gentle at the same time. He pulls back slightly once she's found her feet and studies her. "How'd you get here, anyway? You hitch a ride through time and space with a David Rice type?"

"I took a cab. And I do not remember the vampires in that movie being able to teleport," Ziva replies with a frown, testing her knee with a half-step to the side, Tony's hand still resting on her back. He grins.

"Bzzt!" The imitation of a game show buzzer makes her jump, Tony's fingers flexing in surprised response. "You answered 'Who is Anne Rice?' The answer we were looking for was 'What is_ Jumper'_? Right superpower, wrong movie. Though I have to say I'm impressed that you thought of the movie before the book. Must be my influence. You good to go? Clock's ticking, and I'm pretty sure Gibbs isn't scared of alligators."

If life were a movie quiz, Tony would be at the very top of the food chain.

In his continuing quest to educate her in the world of film, they had watched _Hook_ the previous night, Ziva curled in her usual spot on the end of the couch, Tony at the other end. A bowl of popcorn between them that he ate and she didn't, though occasionally her eyes strayed to his butter-coated fingers.

As if he is somehow reading her mind, he says, "Have you eaten today?"

"Yes," she replies automatically. A half truth, because normal people do not make toast only to choke on the first gritty bite, reminded suddenly of sand between their teeth. Normal people do not open the fridge and stare at the container filled with soup, smile briefly at the note on it that says 'eat me' and close the door, not feeling hungry in the slightest.

His gaze makes her skin prickle. "Imaginary food doesn't count, Zee-vah, though it makes for a heartwarming movie moment."

She doesn't respond, all her remaining energy concentrated on staying upright. Like a limb you don't realize is missing until someone pointedly avoids looking at it, the reason for the dull ache in her midsection suddenly becomes clear.

"I am no Wendy," she says quietly as they head for the parking lot, Tony close at her side but not quite touching her. He doesn't respond, and she suddenly remembers McGee once telling her what Kate had said long ago about Tony and his seemingly relentless quest to remain a perverted Peter Pan forever. She agreed at the time, but seeing the new lines on his face she can't help but think that perhaps she is the shadow that weighs him down.

"If you want to start looking for your own place, I won't be offended," Tony says finally as they pull out of the entrance to the Navy Yard and head for Tony's apartment, Ziva donning dark sunglasses against the reflected glare of sunlight that pierces through her head. "Hey, I'll even help you out. Wouldn't want you ending up in another rat-hole in Silver Spring. We can go this weekend if I don't get called into the office."

Ziva considers this, watching the world outside fly by. "My – Mossad has offered me a sizeable payment for – " Abandoning her to die in the line of duty, severing her salary during her captivity, injuries inflicted during a misguided, compromised mission? " – my discretion in light of past events." It wouldn't do to have her shouting from the rooftops that there was a mole in the Institute. There is always, _always_ someone listening. She continues. "It has not yet been deposited in my new bank account, and I cannot access my… other funds."

Like many shrewd Mossad agents, she has not been above taking the occasional undocumented bonus payment for services rendered, and through careful investment she has quite the little nest egg in an offshore account. Inaccessible, of course, until her replacement documentation arrives at the embassy to prove that she was not in fact killed in action – which cannot happen until the leak at Mossad has been plugged. Until then, Ziva is in the United States thanks to her father's influence and Vance's various connections with relevant agencies, under the cover of being a key witness to plans to threaten American national security.

"Well, when that happens… nothing says 'thank you for putting me up' like an island in the Bahamas," Tony quips. "Hotel DiNozzo is always open for business, especially for hot chicks with ninja powers. More modern than Hotel Gibbs, and with much better cable, though the allure of hot and cold running bourbon might be enough to send you running for the basement."

Ziva can't help but laugh. "Perhaps we should get Gibbs a 'No Vacancy' sign for his birthday."

Tony flashes her a slightly devilish grin, then sobers, looking at her seriously as they pull up at a red light. "And I realize that you can take me down using only a paper towel and your pinky, but if I ever hear you talking about feeling like you're imposing again, I'll… send Keating over to bore you into submission with the ins and outs of NCIS regulations."

It's the sentiment behind his half-jesting words that makes her pause and bite her lip.

"Thank you," Ziva says simply, glad that her eyes are hidden behind the safety of tinted plastic. She cannot find the words (in any of the multitude of languages that she speaks) to fully express her gratitude at his generosity, so easily extended despite all that she has done to him.

Instead, she covers his hand briefly with her own and pretends that it is she that is offering something to him with the gesture, rather than her sudden need to remember what it feels like to fly.

"Second star to the right and straight on 'til morning," Tony says absently, gunning the engine toward the place that she has somehow started to think of as home.

* * *

_As always, reviews, comments and constructive criticism welcomed._


	4. Crazy Prepared

**Author's Note**: Tremors_ is a series of movies from the early/mid 90's involving subterranean worm demons and crazy survivalist types. Mostly referenced because I'm a fan of the obscure. ;) I don't own it, nor do I own a certain literary work referred to at the end of this chapter. Bonus points for picking the book, btw. _

_And yeah, I realize that some people might be waiting for their happy ending, but fair warning: only in Hollywood does trauma resolve itself with hugs and kisses and half-apologies. If you can stick with me, we'll get there eventually, but for now it's all about the journey. There's some setting up to be done before the thrust of the plot takes over. Sorry if that's not what you're after._

Hope you enjoy!

* * *

_Chapter Three: Crazy Prepared._

"Found anything?" McGee says as he enters the lab, the unmistakable smell of Chinese food hanging around him like a sort of gross scent blanket.

"Hey, Abbs, how are you this afternoon?" Abby says in response, not looking away from the computer screen. Busy busy busy. Tap tap tap. She switches back to her normal voice. "Oh, just peachy keen thanks Tim, only drowning in a sea of government regulations and green card requirements, not to mention the complete downer that is searching through the world's biggest database of sound bytes while my caffeine high wears off slowly with each click."

"Uh…"

She sniffs the air and wrinkles her nose. "Nice cologne, but did you need to marinate in it?" Whirling around, she points a black-tipped finger at him in the universal gesture for 'no interruptions'. "Don't tell me. You've been searching for leads in the kitchen of Lee How's Chinese Palace. Or…"

She snaps her fingers. "Oh, I know! Tony's been regaling you with movie trivia again and you've decided to embrace your inner Burt Gummer. If we're about to be invaded by giant subterranean killer worms – or, given the stench of garlic around your person – vampires – I'd appreciate a heads up."

McGee shoots her a look that reminds her of the way her seventh-grade History teacher stared at her when she'd asked if she could do her term project on vampires. What, a girl can't be curious about things that go bump in the night?

She wonders idly what Ms Dalton would say now if she knew about the coffin and the occasional graveyard party. Probably quote herself from report cards of old. 'Abigail is a keen and curious History student with a tendency to let her imagination overtake her academic work.'

"Don't tell me you've never seen Tremors," she says disbelievingly. "Crazy survivalist saves small town from nasty beasties? I bet Gibbs would be the type to make certain modifications to his BB gun by eighth grade."

"Sixth," Gibbs says as he sweeps into the lab, hands full of coffee and – oh, just the thing to get her back on the path to caffeine-induced bliss – Caf-Pow. "I need to keep you away from DiNozzo, Abbs? He's rubbing off on you."

"He wishes," she shoots back, grinning despite Gibbs' slightly irritated expression. Behind her, the monitor beeps loudly. Taking the offered beverage, Abby hooks her thumb at the screen behind her. "Computer says no, Gibbs. Where is Tony, anyway?"

"Computer say anything about the location of our anonymous caller?" he asks bluntly, moving pointedly away from McGee. "DiNozzo switch out your cologne for marinade again, McGee?"

"No, Boss. I've been in the field, interviewing the owners of the storage units either side of the one with the weapons cache. 1331 is Mr and Mrs Cheng, owners of Wah Luck Restaurant in southeast DC. Say they haven't touched their unit in weeks, never saw anyone around while they were loading or unloading."

"No luck at Wah Luck," Abby says with a grin, shooting Gibbs an innocent look and sucking noisily on her straw as if to say 'shutting up now'. Apparently this is one of those 'no levity allowed' times.

"A Mr Jimmy Cameron – no relation to the film director – has locker 1336, opposite and two units down from 1333," McGee continues quickly, looking down at his notes. "Keating compared the gate code entry times, and Cameron's number came up the same day that the mystery owners' did – three days before the tipoff. Says he saw a late-model Cadillac Coupe de Ville pulling out of the bay where his storage unit is located, didn't get a look at the driver but he did remember the license plate starting with AC, his late wife's initials."

Gibbs nods curtly, which is about as close to a 'good work' as he's likely to give when he's like this. Over the years, Abby's become fluent in Gibbsspeak, and this particular mood – frayed patience, slight twitch in his right eye, holding his coffee by the base as though his grip might pop the top off – suggests Troubled Gibbs. The added presence of a hint of shadow in his eyes suggests Troubled with a side of Distracted, and Abby realizes that he didn't answer her question about Tony's current location. It's probably wise not to ask. She can always torture – uh, pry – the information out of McGee later.

"You waiting for a gold star, McGee?" Gibbs asks. "Go run the plate!"

McGee just looks at Gibbs evenly for a long moment and then leaves, only a hint of his early nervous obedience in his stride. The once-terrified agent has definitely grown a spine in the last year or so, particularly during the time that Ziva was… away. He's worlds away from the McGee that Abby once – well, enjoyed spending naked time with, maybe even felt almost-love affection for. It's kind of sexy in a forbidden fruit, Rule 12, what-might-have-been kind of way.

Bad, Abby. _Bad_ rule-breaking thoughts.

"Don't make me headslap you, Abbs," Gibbs says in a slightly gentler tone, but not without a hint of warning. It's an empty threat, though she doesn't doubt that given the right provocation, he might just follow through. "Anonymous caller?"

"Aye Aye, Captain," Abby says, jumping to attention stiffly and hiding a grin at Gibbs' almost-smile. She turns to her monitor and clicks through until she finds the right screen. "Well, I isolated the background noise, eliminated the echo that you get in high-traffic areas, and came up with this." She hits play and the sound fills the room, an odd whirr followed by a hiss of hydraulic brakes and a dull metallic clunk. "See, it's not just one sound, but a series. Like the Tremor movies, and did you really – "

Off his look, she continues hurriedly. "Never mind."

"Sounds like a bus," Gibbs says thoughtfully.

"You're 33.3% correct, Gibbs. The hydraulic part of the trio _is_ consistent with a bus pulling up at a stop and opening the doors, but it's the other sounds that have me stumped, and do you know how many bus stations are in the radius of that cell tower? Forty-seven, and I'm sure you don't want to send the team out to case every one of them and compare. Not that you wouldn't, because whatever it takes to get the job done, right?"

He raises an eyebrow, which when applied to the 'Sciuto Venn Diagram Classification System of Gibbs', kicks his mood into Troubled, Distracted and Impatient; generally a trifecta of bad.

"I'm working on it," she says after awhile. "Genius takes time, and I'm doing the work of at least three people down here. Simmons over at Norfolk is on personal leave until Friday, and they're sending all of their VIE – that's Very Important Evidence – over to me in the meantime."

"Want me to request another assistant from Vance?" Gibbs says meaningfully.

Abby shakes her head vehemently at the thought, pigtails whipping. "A world of no. I'm all over it, I swear on Sister Rosita's rosary. Just… give a girl a little leeway, okay?"

Unexpectedly, Gibbs moves toward her and presses a kiss to her cheek. "Don't work yourself into the ground," he says with a slightly more sympathetic gaze, and turns to go. The curiosity is almost overwhelming, and suddenly she can't _not_ ask.

"Gibbs?" Abby says as he's halfway out the door, and he turns and studies her. "Where's Tony?" His gaze clouds almost unnoticeably, then clears so quickly she wonders if it was just a caffeine-induced hallucination.

"Driving Ziva home," he answers simply, and heads for the elevator without any further explanation. Abby pauses and frowns. Ziva was here? Ziva came to the Navy Yard and didn't come down to visit her? That's a little…

Well, she can understand the whole not wanting to be stared at thing, especially since there's been a good deal of gossip about what happened to the scary Mossad Liaison Officer from the MCRT – most of it stemming from the techs in the evidence garage, who are petrified of her for reasons as yet unknown, though Abby can guess.

Stupid men and their stupid inferiority complexes.

For a group of people whose job is to investigate various elements of Navy/Marine Corps related crimes, she's never heard people come up with as many wild and completely unsubstantiated theories. The rumours run wilder around here than one of Tony's old frat parties.

"Hey," Gibbs says amidst her musing, popping his head back through the door and levelling her with a knowing glance. "Don't take it personally. Wasn't a social call."

Abby's both a little creeped out at yet another demonstration of Gibbs' psychic abilities and touched that he thought to reassure her. His head disappears as the elevator dings, and Abby's left alone to ponder exactly what led Ziva to venture into the Navy Yard in the first place.

She allows herself a minute or two of speculation before taking a long pull on her Caf-Pow and turning back to her computer.

_Whirr-hiss-clunk_. Click. Slurp. _Whirr-hiss-clunk_. Click. Slurp. Repeat the soundtrack of this particular as-yet-unsolvable puzzle ad infinitum, or until comprehension dawns.

If nothing else, she's determined to kick the butt of her metaphorical Graboid. Gibbs is waiting for answers, and Abby's nothing if not Crazy Prepared.

* * *

Rule five. Take all necessary precautions.

Ziva triple-checks the locks on the front door, comforted by the fact that Tony has thought to install a particularly hard-to-break-into brand of deadbolt. Not impenetrable – nothing is truly impenetrable, after all – but enough to give your average home invader pause.

Moving on silent feet around the now-familiar apartment, she retrieves Tony's 'jogging gun' (a Smith and Wesson Model 60, her own backup of choice once upon a time) from its place on the top shelf of the pantry and loads it with the bullets hidden in the back of Tony's linen closet.

She's not sure if Tony knows that she knows where the gun and bullets are kept. They move around the apartment sporadically, and she's always careful to unload and return the various parts to wherever they're hidden that particular day before he gets home.

She doesn't want to think about what that means, that Tony who knows very well that she can out-shoot him with both eyes closed and a considerable head wind is reluctant to reveal the location of his backup weapon.

Only when the gun is loaded and tucked inside the waistband of her pants does Ziva start to relax, toeing off her shoes with a sigh and doing a cursory check of her surroundings, starting with 'her' bedroom where she changes into more comfortable clothes. The fleece is soft against her still-healing wounds. The apartment is empty and quiet, save for the occasional noise from the neighbours above and to either side and her own suddenly-loud breaths.

_It's quiet. Too quiet._

The phrase that Tony sometimes uses with a good helping of irony has taken on a whole new meaning. Having longed for quiet for weeks – peace from the report of gunfire, whistle of the desert wind, the raspy menace of the guards outside and above all the constant tinny ringing in her ears – Ziva has found that the thing she thought she would be most grateful for grates on her nerves. The lack of noise only amplifies every little everyday sound into something infinitely more threatening than it actually is, and as much as she curses the unwelcome reflex she cannot help it any more than she can help the ceaseless pound of blood in her veins. Breathe in, breathe out.

The rush of water through pipes becomes the whip of a fist or a boot or a belt through the air. Chattering in the hallway blurs into a language that is unrecognizable, making her tense and wait for the smell of smoke and the crash bang thump of the cell door. The fades eventually, her brain recognizing the sounds for what they are more quickly with each passing day.

Twelve seconds. Eight seconds. Five.

A sign of progress, she thinks, but turns on the radio anyway, flips the dial until classical music fills the air, lilting and gentle and soothing the last twists of tension from her now-weary muscles.

Ziva checks her watch – has it really been half an hour since Tony dropped her at the front door? – digs a familiar canister from her bag and shakes two pills from the container with a rattle. She swallows the painkillers dry and then, remembering what Tony said, pads slowly to the refrigerator and pours herself a glass of orange juice, returning to the living room and sinking onto the couch with a bitten-back groan. The exhaustion that she has not let herself feel suddenly becomes overwhelming.

_Pushed too hard, Ziva_, she thinks as she rests her head on the back of the couch and allows her eyes to drift closed, just for a brief moment of rest while the painkillers work their way through her bloodstream.

She wakes with a start some time later, and a quick check of her watch reveals that almost five hours have passed. Sometime during her sleep – surprisingly unbroken, a small mercy – she has slipped down on the couch and her neck aches a little from the awkward position. She stretches, cat-like, and winces at the dull throb of her muscles, mostly hidden behind the fading painkillers like a knife wrapped in soft cotton.

She shakes out another pill and sips from the glass of juice, long since warmed but not unpleasant. The glass is beaded with condensation, a ring of water marking the surface of the coffee table. She swipes at it absently with her hand, wipes it on the soft fabric of her sweats and watches the moisture darken the pale fabric.

"_Does it hurt?" _he asks in her head, mocking_. _The imagined slap rings in her ears_. _She nods despite herself, because there is nobody here to see it. _"Good. Now. Tellme… everythingyouknow… aboutNCIS_."

A dry laugh bubbles from her throat. How stupid, to resist the pain, to hide it. It would be much easier to admit it, and yet it is unthinkable – almost as unthinkable as taking the gun from her waistband and –

There's one thing to be said for American early-evening television – at the very least, it provides a welcome distraction from her own thoughts. Even on mute, because the familiar strains of Ravel echo sweetly from the radio and she has always loved this piece.

_Pavane Pour Une Infante Defunte_.

Her fingers twitch in remembered reflex, her own personal Pavlovian impulse, and she wishes Tony had a piano. The scrape of fingers inside plaster and the ache that follows is a sharp reminder of why moments of nostalgia are best left to sentimental fools. The Tylenol 3 makes the world slightly fuzzy around the edges, which she hates, but experience has taught her that not taking it makes the world blur in a different way, and the first is preferable because at least she can –

Footsteps approach from down the hall, light and easy and unhurried, almost in time with the music. Swallowing against the momentary flash of uncertainty, Ziva waits for them to pass. Instead, they stop outside the door and someone clears their throat. She shifts, the gun digging into her stomach, as a knock rings through the apartment, soft and leisurely and unthreatening.

"_If you want someone dead, you knock on their door, they answer, you shoot them. Easy."_

She thinks briefly of pretending she's not home, until a familiar voice sounds and chases the thought from her head. The music swells to a crescendo, chord after chord in the left hand and the waterfall of the tune in the right.

"Ziva?" A pause, and then gentler, "Tony told me that he dropped you home a few hours ago, and I thought I would stop by. However, if you wish to pretend you are not there, you may. I am aware that perhaps you are in no mood for company."

Suddenly, despite her earlier weariness and desire to drop the mask for awhile, she desperately wants to not be alone, and Ducky has been nothing but kind since she returned to Washington. She pushes herself off the couch and marvels for a second at the drug-induced ease, already moving toward the door with a semblance of her former grace. Wonderful things, these painkillers, and almost (but not _quite_) worth the slight blur at the edges of her vision.

By the time she reaches the door, peers through the peephole and turns the lock, Ducky is already turning away with a disappointed expression on his face. At the sound of the latch, he turns back quickly, plastic crinkling. Ziva pulls the door open and offers him a smile that is surprisingly genuine.

"Come in, Ducky."

He offers her a kiss on the cheek as he enters, looking her up and down casually with a hint of something mildly concerned in his eyes. "You look well, my dear," he says cautiously, "if a little tired." Cocking his head, he listens to the music for a moment. "Ravel's _Pavane for a Dead Princess,"_ he says under the ebb and swell of the piano. "Quite a fitting choice, given the –"

"What are you doing here?" she blurts before she can help it, uncomfortable with the way his eyes fix on her meaningfully.

He holds up a plastic bag, unfazed by her rudeness. "I am afraid that I have not yet mastered the art of cooking for one, and I made far too much soup last night. Would you indulge an old man and assist him with eating the leftovers?"

Ziva accepts the gesture (and the container) for what it is, a subtle attempt at manipulation and yet with only the best intentions. She cannot find it in herself to refuse, nor to call him on it, simply moves into the kitchen and puts the soup in the microwave, bending with gritted teeth to retrieve bowls and cutlery.

Ducky keeps up a casual patter of conversation, telling her about his latest cases and Palmer's 'new lady friend' as she potters about the kitchen, the smell of soup drifting in the air and sparking a sudden feeling of hunger. Ziva listens, responds in the right places and asks questions that she thinks are appropriate and meaningful, aware that she is being watched, her reactions measured and compared and tested against the baseline of what she is sure is his considerable previous experience.

"Enough about me," he says meaningfully as they sit at the counter with bread and steaming bowls between them, and suddenly Ziva is not only hungry but _starving_, though she forces herself to take small, slow bites, if only for the sake of manners.

They eat in comfortable silence, Ducky thankfully having abandoned his line of questioning – perhaps at the sight of her actually _eating_. She doesn't doubt that Tony has been talking to him, perhaps asking his advice, and though part of her wants to protest at the sharing of confidences, she can't help but be a little touched by their mutual concern.

The soup is thick and delicious, sliding down her throat easily and warming her from the outside in, and before she knows it the bowl is empty and Ducky is offering her more with a faintly pleased smile.

"Proof that I am not an entirely terrible cook, then, though Mother might disagree. She is quite pleased with the plentiful meals served in the nursing home, though I suspect much of the time she is not sure what meal – or even what _day_ – it is. Such is the nature of Alzheimer's." He shrugs. "Whatever the motivation, I am glad to see you eat."

Ziva is suddenly glad of (and at the same time, acutely conscious of) her too-thin face and overlarge sweats. _Something to grow into_, Tony had said with a laugh when he had brought them home in the first few days back in Washington, embarrassed at having gotten her size wrong.

She hadn't wanted to tell him that the size was what she _used_ to wear, so she just smiled and agreed, curling her fingers up into the sleeves.

Ducky is nothing if not observant – it is as much a part of his nature and training as it is hers, if fuelled by entirely different motivations. For Ducky, it allows him to learn the secrets of the dead, to hear what they have to say and sometimes to speak back to them. Sometimes, to offer a semblance of comfort on their final journey.

For Ziva, it is the secret to staying alive – those who are not on their guard usually end up dead at a young age, the rabbi reciting El Maleh Rachamim – the Memorial Prayer – over yet another son or daughter who has died serving Israel. The names of the dead float like the whispers of ghosts in the air, people she has loved and lost, some that she has seen bleed out for the sake of blue and white, others that she could have – _should_ have – saved but was unable to. Some that she herself killed, by act or by omission.

Levi. Tali. Shmuel. Ari. Elisheva. Michael.

_Hamakom y'nachem etchem b'toch sh'ar availai tziyon ee yerushalayim, _she thinks suddenly, and without warning tears spring unbidden to her eyes. She blinks them away fiercely, bows her head as they tremble on the ends of her lashes and threaten to spill over. _May God comfort you among all the mourners of Zion and Jerusalem._

A hand reaches over and covers her own gently, the same hand that comforts the dead now comforting the living, or at least those who are trying to remember how. Ziva wants to sob, helpless and childlike and broken, because it is all just too much to handle right now.

Rule Three. Good soldiers do not cry.

"Did Tony send you here to check up on me?" she asks, pulling away sharply, suddenly furious for a reason she cannot name. The anger blazes white-hot through her veins, tightens her chest and dries up her tears. Ziva welcomes it. It is easier to be angry than to define why exactly she is crying.

As soon as the words leave her lips, she hears the venom in them and instantly hates herself for taking it out on Ducky – Ducky who has been nothing but kind. They are _all_ kind, and they are all understanding, and they are all standing with outstretched hands and sharp eyes waiting for her to fall. She hates it more than she can say, and yet she is warmed by it, because that is what you do for family, is it not? You catch them.

It is alien and unfamiliar and wholly undeserved – unearned, even, though not entirely unwanted. Not entirely.

Ducky's voice is impossibly gentle, calm in the face of her sudden storm. "I came here this evening to see how you were, not because I was told to come. Is it so far beyond the realm of possibility that others might be somewhat… concerned… about your health and well-being?" She doesn't dare look at him. His tone sharpens. "Anthony certainly did not send me, though I admit I would perhaps not have come if he had not been down in my morgue for an hour this afternoon, worried sick about you and trying his damndest not to show it."

At this, Ziva lifts her eyes to meet his steady gaze, surprised. Ducky clucks his tongue gently at her in response. "I do hope you're not about to tell me that you were unaware of how he feels about you, my dear," he says with a hint of dry humour. Shame reddens her cheeks and forces her gaze back down to the flecked granite countertop.

She was not unaware.

Once, she wore her sensuality like a cloak, shining eyes and leonine stride and curls spilling their wild waterfall down her back. Young and strong and proud on the outside, even if inside she was confused and wanting and a little uncertain. Now the coin has been flipped, she has bled out her pride and been left, turned inside out and crumpled like a sweater hastily shed in the face of a sudden heatwave, tossed carelessly over the nearest chair and left until someone thinks to smooth out the fleece and fold it neatly. Fold her neatly?

Well, the comparison seemed to work until then, and there is nobody inside her head to care, so perhaps she is making a mountain out of an ant-hill.

These days, she holds her breath at footsteps in the hall and sometimes reaches behind her for a ponytail that is not there, wanting to shake out her hair and hide her face. Avoid the prickling pointed gazes like she herself avoids looking in the mirror over the bathroom sink, in the glass of shop windows and the reflection of herself in other people's eyes.

"Might I offer you some advice?" Ducky says now, lifting her chin with a finger and studying her seriously. "You will not solve anything by pretending that there is not a problem, no matter how skilled you may be at maintaining the cover you seem to feel is necessary. If you do not want to talk to Dr Kochler, that is understandable, though skipping your appointments is perhaps not the wisest decision."

Ziva closes her eyes – five, eight, twelve seconds – because she can't bear to see the mild reproach in his. Ducky sighs. "I'm not privy to all the details of your situation, though I have seen enough and read enough in your file – forgive an old man for his curiosity, won't you? – to fill in the gaps. I realise that you may not wish to hear this, but I'm sorry for what you went through, and thankful that you survived it."

Ziva wants to tell him that she's not so sure that she is thankful, some days, though the beat beat beat of life in her chest is too strong to ignore, even if it hurts.

Ducky does not acknowledge her lack of response, only pulls his hand back and reaches for his hat, abandoned on top of the fruit bowl. "Should you ever feel like talking, you know where to find me."

He stands abruptly and she follows suit, rising like an obedient puppet at the tug of a string. Wooden-limbed and mute, her jaw working as though the hinge has broken, flapping uselessly instead of forming words. She wants to thank him, but the sentiment seems wrong and ill-fitting somehow. She_ is_ thankful, but in the way that you are thankful for antiseptic on an open wound – one cannot help but be annoyed by the sting and burn it creates on still-raw flesh.

"Thank you for the soup," Ziva says finally, her pride preventing her from saying more than that aloud, though she suspects from Ducky's knowing look that her eyes betray her feelings.

"You are most welcome," he replies simply, smiling up at her. His gaze strays to a photograph on the wall near the door, a rare picture of the team all together, taken months ago at a bar she cannot even remember the location of (she of the eidetic memory, the inscrutable expression, the lifted chin), let alone the name.

In the picture she is sandwiched between Tony and Abby, their arms around her. Gibbs and Ducky flank them as McGee and Palmer peer from behind. All of them are laughing, even Gibbs, caught in a rare moment of relaxed levity between cases, between the realities of life. She wonders who took the photo and when Tony hung it, for she is almost certain that it was not there a week ago.

In the background of the photo, a poster on the wall proclaims an upcoming Roaring Twenties showcase at a theatre in downtown DC. Ducky taps it thoughtfully, his finger leaving a smudge on the glass and blurring the date that has long since passed.

"It is invariably saddening," he says quietly, "to look through new eyes at things upon which you have expended your own powers of adjustment." It takes her a moment, but she recognises the quote after a long beat of silence in which throbs through the room, through her head.

"Are you telling me to beat on against the current, Doctor Mallard?" she asks finally.

Ducky gives her a look that is equal parts understanding and sympathy. "In a sense. Though I was actually thinking of green lights and outstretched arms, the belief that tomorrow we will run faster, until one day…" He pauses. "I am not sure of the specifics of your stay in Washington, but rest assured that you will not be sent away for speaking the truth, even if it is painful to tell – or to hear. Tony will listen, if you will let him."

"Thank you," Ziva says again as he crosses the threshold, and neither of them bother to pretend that she is talking about soup. He graces her with a brief hug – unusual for Ducky who normally tends towards the Gibbs end of the demonstrative scale – and shrugs on his trench coat, hat firmly planted on his head.

"Look after yourself," he says in farewell, something in his tone suggesting that perhaps Gibbs has told him more about the scene on the tarmac than he will ever admit, and then he is gone, walking away like others before him but without the finality of goodbye, only a 'see you later' skip in his measured stride.

Ziva closes the door, presses her back against it and squeezes her eyes shut. She slides down the door and sits on the hardwood floor, letting herself become lost in the music that has continued to play in the background during Ducky's visit, a sort of subconscious soundtrack to the realities of life. _Good soldiers do not cry,_ she tells herself firmly, raging against the sudden choke of tears. Like all things, the feeling passes eventually.

Twelve seconds. Eight seconds. Five.

* * *

_Reviews, comments and concrit welcomed and appreciated. I have a major, epic presentation to give at a national conference tomorrow morning and am all kinds of sweaty-palmed nervous about it, so some author-stroking via reviews would be a most welcome distraction. *shifty eyes* Nope, not soliciting for feedback at all. Nuh-uh. :D_


	5. Men of Steel

**A/N:** Hey there, NCIS peeps. Long time no see! This took a little longer than I expected - sorry about that. 2010 is so far shaping up to be a good year - remission, a decent new episode of NCIS, and the return of the muse. Hope everyone had a wonderful holiday season, and that you're sufficiently full of good cheer not to send firebombs over the internet at me for what's coming next. :) Keep in mind that we've gone AU after Aliyah, so certain bathroom conversations never happened...

Some quotes taken from 'Bury Your Dead'.

Dedicated to wildpeace for general awesomeness during seriously crap times, mia58 for assuring me that this wasn't complete crap (I'm rusty as all hell), and Sashile who took the time to read outside her normal fandom, review _and_ slip in a small poke to resume writing certain long-languishing fics.

* * *

_Chapter Four: Man of Steel_

The bullpen is bathed in dim evening light as Gibbs ascends the stairs like a bull hunting down the matador. The catwalk near MTAC is silent and dark, the retinal scanner blinking urgently near the door as if to warn him of the foolishness of his charge. Nobody waits on the couch near Vance's office and his secretary is long since gone for the day, and so there's no trumpet sound of warning, no bleating protests from her to herald his arrival. He doesn't bother to knock, just pushes through the double doors, the noise all the announcement he's ever needed.

For a moment Gibbs freezes just inside the doorway, imagines a flash of red hair behind the desk, a familiar air of indignance that Jen could never quite pull off, then Vance clears his throat in resigned annoyance and the illusion fades.

"Agent Gibbs," Vance says with a slight nod of something resembling respect, stacking up the paperwork on top of his desk and depositing the bundle in his outbox to be delivered in the morning. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?" His gaze doesn't falter under Gibbs' steady stare.

"Heard anything from our friends in Israel lately?"

At that, Vance sighs and pushes the chair back, rising like he's been sitting too long behind the desk and wants to stretch but will not allow himself the moment of weakness.

"Drink?"

Gibbs can almost taste the sweet smokiness of the top-shelf bourbon that he suspects Vance keeps for occasions just like these. There have been more since their return from Egypt than he would care to mention, but such is the price of protecting one's country and one's own.

"You stalling, Leon?"

Vance offers him a glass anyway, and motions toward the table. They sit across from one another, all pretence that Vance will take the chair at the head of the table long since gone. In these dark evenings, they are not Director and subordinate, but two men trying to find a solution to a problem that haunts them both for different reasons.

Vance swirls the amber liquid in his glass and ripples of caramel and gold weave across the grain of the wood in the dim light from the television screen behind his head. "Eli David has been suspended from his position, pending investigation," he says quietly, heavily. There's no need to speak of the classified nature of this information. If nothing else, they have learnt to trust that conversations like these are not to be shared – or even acknowledged – outside this room.

"Shin Bet after him?"

"There is some dispute over the illegal and unsanctioned actions of Mossad Agent Michael Rivkin while on American soil," Vance replies simply. "Netanyahu is out for blood, and as Director of Mossad – "

"David will be the first to be cut," Gibbs supplies. Such is the price of power. "And Amit Hadar?"

"One assumes he was the one to tip Netanyahu to the security concerns within the Institute and the cover-up of Rivkin's Los Angeles snafu."

Careful cursive dances in Gibbs' memory.

**

Further contact?

_Two days ago. Same demands. My resignation for my daughter._

And?

_Domino._

**

"Hadar's been made temporary Director?" It belies all sense of rationality and belief that the Prime Minister would put the man responsible for this whole mess – though to what extent, they're still not sure – in charge, thus giving him the power he sought to twist to his own destructive ends.

"Amit Hadar has disappeared from Mossad's radar entirely."

Gibbs' hands tighten around the glass so fiercely that Vance looks as though he's considering prying it from his white-knuckled grip. "Since _when_?"

"Three days ago." Leon fixes him with a warning look. "If you throw that tumbler at the wall, you'll be picking glass from the carpet until morning."

"You give the cleaning crew the night off?" It's not what he wants to say – the blood is boiling in his veins and Gibbs dearly wants to shout loud enough to be heard across the ocean – but it serves to cool his temper enough to stave off the explosion. For now.

"As we sow, so shall we reap." It's almost wistful, and Gibbs is certain that they are seeing the same bruised face and dark hair hovering in the thick air between them.

"And Ziva?" Ziva, who has already borne the brunt of what others have sown with her usual grace.

"A description of Amit Hadar has been sent to all major airports, shipping ports and means of entry to the United States. If he plans to enter the country by normal channels, it will not go unnoticed."

The absurdity of it makes Gibbs snort with something that could be mistaken for amusement. Mossad agents – especially rogue Mossad agents – are not the type to be waylaid by a simple customs checkpoint.

"You think he'll come for her himself?"

"Eli is concerned about the possibility. Personally, I think it would be a foolish thing to do, but it's not for me to judge. In the enemy's eyes, she is a loose end that must be tied, and the investigation has turned up records of Eli's travel to Egypt, as well as the gate log from El Gorah stating that we were there. It's only a short step to locating her medical records, should they choose to pursue it further. Hadar is aware of her connection to NCIS, and should he have contacts inside the Shin Bet task force..."

"You should have covered your tracks better!" Gibbs barks, furious. "Hadar's not an idiot. He'll know that we're watching, and he'll send someone else to do the job, _if_ he wants it done at all. Maybe he already has."

"Agent Fornell will arrange for discreet protection detail. As a guest of the United States government with possibly vital information as to an international terrorist plot, Miss David's safety is of great importance."

"Nice story you spun there, Leon," Gibbs forces out through clenched teeth, flattening his hands on the table top with enough force that he imagines his fingers biting into the wood. "Sec-Nav's no doubt sweating over the threat to Domino. Don't much care about that, personally."

Vance leans forward and pins him with a stare that could cut granite, and Gibbs is reminded of his ruthlessness in ascending through the ranks of NCIS and the stubborn nature that he displayed like a badge of pride during the investigation into Jen's death. It's tempered with genuine concern, though whether it's directed at the thought of national security being compromised or concern for Ziva's safety, Gibbs does not know.

It doesn't matter, really.

"I heard she showed up here this afternoon, looking for DiNozzo. How is she?" Vance asks quietly.

"You asking for yourself, or someone else?"

"Does it matter?"

"Guess not." He thinks of what Ducky told him over the phone not long ago.

"_She is struggling, Jethro, though she is far too proud to admit it. I suspect that her wounds will heal, given time and the proper support – if she will accept it."_

"She's get through it. She's a fighter," he says to Vance, and from the answering look he knows that his tone was perhaps a shade too fatherly for the Director's liking. "Tony's watching her six. We all are."

"Ah, your Agent DiNozzo, champion and white knight." Gibbs isn't sure he likes the tone underlying the words, though it's a shade more respectful than he expected. Vance drains his glass in a single swallow and sets it on a coaster. "You trust them not to kill each other?"

Following suit, Gibbs upends his own, foregoing the coaster and purposely ignoring Vance's barely-noticeable wince at the rings of moisture that the glass leaves on the table top.

"I trust them to remember that if they so much as try, I'll kill them both with my bare hands." He pushes back from the table as he says it and turns to leave. He pauses halfway to the door, thinking of fathers and daughters, and the words spring from his mouth before he can stop them. "Tell Eli that we're taking good care of her."

Vance is silent for a long moment.

"I already have, Jethro."

There's no real answer to that that doesn't confirm that Vance is far more perceptive than Gibbs wants to give him credit for.

Gibbs doesn't bother with pleasantries or requests to be kept in the loop, simply opens the door a little more gently than he did on his entry and steps through, not looking back as he pulls it shut quietly, his own way of bidding the Director a good night by way of not leaving him reeling from the bang of a slammed door. There's no point in it, because there's no point to make.

The squad room is quiet save for a faint rustling of paper as he moves toward the stairs, his own desk light and Tony's the only beacons of light in the near-darkness, two lone signals casting shadows across desks and partitions and for a minute seeming oddly foreboding rather than welcoming. Night is his favourite time to work, away from the constant hustle and bustle that is part of working in an open office.

Obviously it's not only him that prefers the quiet.

"DiNozzo," he says from the top of the stairs, and Tony's head snaps up as if surprised. Gibbs knows better – without the noise of other agents and personnel, the sound of the Director's door closing would have been audible even to someone who wasn't listening. His Senior Field Agent is a fair actor, but not quite good enough.

"Boss?"

Gibbs makes a show of checking his watch. "It's 2100. Go home."

"But – "

"It will wait. Go." For a moment, Tony looks as though he's preparing to argue, but at Gibbs' glare (no doubt more menacing in the half-light) he shuts his mouth with an audible snap and has shuffled the papers he's reading into an untidy pile and shouldered his backpack by the time Gibbs rounds the bottom step and enters the bullpen.

"You and Vance have a nice chat?"

"Had to cut the campfire short," Gibbs shoots back. "Forgot the s'mores."

Tony blinks in surprise at the joke, but recovers quickly enough. "You don't strike me as the Kumbaya type anyway. Ghost stories, maybe." He cocks an eyebrow, likely absorbing the double meaning of Gibbs' words. "Any news about – "

"None that you need to know right this minute." Gibbs has already weighed the implications of telling Tony everything and the scales have come down heavy on the side of 'wait'. While all they have are faint possibilities and maybes, the risk that Ziva will read Tony like a book as she does so well is too high to warrant reading him in.

"But – "

"You have four seconds to get your ass in that elevator, Tony, or so help me – "

The threat is cut off by the echoing 'ding' of the elevator doors opening. Still watching as they slide shut with a pneumatic hiss, Gibbs leans over what used to be Ziva's desk and switches off the lamp, leaving his desk the only signal of safe, firm ground in an ocean of darkness.

It's only the thought of the security cameras that stops him from resting his head in his hands and allowing himself to drift into the depths of unrest at the new twist of events.

_We reap what we sow_, indeed.

* * *

Tony eases his car into the designated space (which reminds him that he promised to take Ziva car shopping when she's allowed to drive again, a thought that fills him with equal parts enthusiasm and horror) and switches off the engine, glancing up at the windows of his apartment. No light is visible, not even the flickering of the TV. He checks his watch – almost 2200, pretty early for Ziva to be in bed but not unusual – and pushes through the door into the foyer, stopping to check his mailbox as is his normal routine.

Gas bill, credit card, white piece of paper folded double and obviously hand-delivered, though blank. The last makes him pause for a minute and hold it to the light before shrugging – must be a mistake, it's not the first time – and folding it again absently as he waits for the elevator.

His keys are in his hand the minute he steps up to the door, careful not to let them knock against the wood and disturb a certain light-sleeping ex-ninja. There's no light under the door, so he opens it carefully and steps through into darkness, thinking about Gibbs' odd behaviour earlier – none-too-subtly encouraging Tony to push Ziva into talking, making the s'mores joke that didn't do much to hide the tenseness of his shoulders (after so many years, Tony's learnt all the signs of the Gibbs Stance of Doom and this was a textbook case).

Gibbs and Vance, holding a 'campfire'. It's almost as unbelievable as when he first heard Daniel Craig was the next 007. A blonde Bond? Defies belief in the same way as the thought of Gibbs being all friendly with –

The gun barrel presses up against the back of his neck and effectively chases all thoughts of Gibbs from his head, except that the boss is probably going to kill him when he hears about this.

Stupid, Tony; stupid to sneak into an apartment that's the temporary home of a skittish ninja.

"Hands behind your back," Ziva says in a voice that he almost doesn't recognise. Equal parts fear and command, with a touch of supervillain to it. She's the Luthor to his Superman, but with the Kryptonite of cold metal no doubt leaving a nice little hole-shaped indent in the back of his neck, he's not about to argue.

"An open beer and Tivo-ed Buckeyes replays say 'welcome home, darling' just fine, thanks," he says into the darkness, and before he's gotten more than a handful of words out the gun withdraws and Ziva draws in surprised breath. "I really hope you didn't find the –"

"Back of the linen closet," she says, cutting him off from somewhere across the room and damn, she's fast for someone with a busted knee. He should know.

"Stupid question," he says, fumbling for the switch near the door with slightly-shaking fingers. "Surprise homecoming bad. Noted. I'll make sure to call ahead, knock with a closed fist and possibly serenade you from the other side of the door at the top of my voice next time." Deep down he knows he's probably making her feel worse, but the words spew out like he's caught McBabble's oversharing disease or something.

Light floods the room as he finally finds the switch, sending fireworks careening into his line of sight. He blinks against the explosion of colour and drops his backpack with an unceremonious thud, fighting the urge to rub his eyes and slink into the master bedroom like a petulant child.

He's really too tired for this crap.

Ziva is wild-eyed and wild-haired, dressed in her too-large sweats and refusing to meet his eyes. The gun – _his gun_ – is still in her hand like it's her buoy and she's afraid that if she lets go she'll sink under the surface. She attempts a smile.

"How was your day?"

"Little hard to answer that while you're still pointing my gun at me," Tony replies abruptly, toeing off his shoes and kicking them a little too hard into the corner. Ziva winces and sets the gun on the coffee table. "Gibbs and Vance are busily plotting in dark corners, McGiggle is running in circles over plate numbers and bank statements, Keating didn't set anything on fire which is a step forward for him. Abby's probably making braking-bus noises in her sleep and dreaming of Keanu, who was much more interesting when he was choosing between blue or red pills."

She shoots him the half-exasperated, half confused look that usually means she's attributed his segue to some kind of movie reference but can't quite place the film. He's in no mood to explain or to rib her about her blind spot when it comes to American pop culture, so he just stalks toward the fridge and peers in as though the meaning of life can be found among the cold cuts and cartons of milk and juice.

Her eyes seem to bore pinholes into his back. "You are angry."

"We've been over my dislike of secret agendas."

"We have," Ziva says in a low voice, and when he turns around with a container of chow mein in hand her face is concerned. "I do not think that that is the only reason," she pushes. "I am sorry about before. I fell asleep on the couch and you… surprised me."

"Not the first time I've been on the business end of your weapon," he says a touch more bitterly than he intended to, and he can practically hear the imaginary clang of the shutters slamming down behind her eyes as her concern turns to something cold and dark.

"I do not know how many times I need to apologise before you forgive me," Ziva says in a strangled voice, her good hand worrying at the edges of her cast as she folds in on herself like a crumpled flower.

In his head, Gibbs is telling him to push her and Ducky is telling him not to, but Gibbs wins as he so often does. He steps further into the minefield that is May, half wanting the explosion and half wanting to hear the click of the broken mechanism under his feet.

"Well, let's see. I figure I owe you at least a couple more conversations of throwing mistakes you didn't intend to make in your face. Just to even the score and all that. 'You didn't think this through, Tony.' 'You crossed the line, Tony.' You know what? Just like before, just like _always_, I'm tired of pretending. You crossed the line, Ziva."

He might as well have poured gasoline over the line, lit a match, and danced on the ensuing flames like a devil, judging by the flash of naked pain on her face, but he can't stop the word-vomit spilling hot and acidic from his mouth.

"You knew Rivkin was in DC. You knew that something was rotten in the state of Denmark when Gibbs asked you if you knew him, and you _still_ tried to have him extracted by Mossad when everything went to shit."

"In Mossad, we are taught to protect our own," she says almost robotically, as if repeating a line from a manual. The Field Guide to Betrayal. Tony sees red.

"You think I wasn't?" he asks disbelievingly, running a hand through his hair so furiously he imagines his nails leaving a trail across his scalp. "You think that I went to your apartment, to Tel Aviv, to the black depths of some African hellhole hoping I'd get some kind of medal for valour? Tony DiNozzo, brave and noble protector of his own worthless ass."

"I did not know then that I needed protecting," Ziva says almost too softly to be audible, but her quiet resignation only serves to fan the flames of his inexplicable anger.

"You didn't want to know."

Finally, her anger flares hot and bright. "I wanted to believe that Michael was not using me. Just like you wanted to believe that Jeanne would come back to you – would still love you – after she learnt the truth."

"She _did_ come back!" Tony roars through the red haze, ignoring the angry pounding on the wall that joins his apartment to that of his neighbours. "Twice she offered me a chance to be with her, and both times I chose – " His traitorous tongue trips over what he was about to say. " – my family. And this isn't about Jeanne." It sounds childish and stupid like he's a six year old child pouting over the revelation that the world isn't flat. Yes it is. No it's not. Yes it is.

_No, it's not._

"It is about decisions that we would take back if we could, no?" Ziva replies after a long leaden pause, and something in her voice pulls him back from the brink of storming from the apartment and slamming the door. He stares at her, too stunned to form words for agonising minutes as she refuses to meet his eyes and a block of ice forms somewhere in his lower intestine.

"You think I'd take it back?" He's not talking about Jeanne now, and they both know it.

"You should have left me to die," Ziva says without moving a muscle, and Tony can't tear his eyes from her face nor catch his breath as his heart seizes in his chest at her words. "I cannot deny that I did not want it, even expect it. It was right that I should pay for the things I did to – to all of you."

Tony deflates like a balloon, crossing the floor of the living room in a few halting strides and stopping a few feet shy of the sofa she's curled into like she wants to disappear. "Don't let Gibbs hear you say that," he warns for lack of anything else to say, though he suspects that Gibbs might sympathise. There's no movie quote for this, no mug or souvenir. '_I went to Hell and all I got were stupid accusations from people who are meant to be watching my six._'

"It was not unjustified, and they were not _entirely_ stupid," Ziva says quietly, and Tony realises that he unintentionally said that last part out loud. "A Freudian trip?"

"Slip," he corrects automatically, and then looks at her. "I mean, no."

"You always have," she adds hesitantly. "Watched my six," she clarifies at his obvious look of confusion. "I should have trusted that you had my best interests at heart."

It's not entirely true, but he's all out of fight for the night and he's not sure he can explain the why of that even to himself. Exhaustion drapes over him like a wet blanket and judging by the way Ziva's leaning her head against the back of the sofa like it's too heavy to hold upright, he's not the only one pushed beyond their limit.

"I know you're not okay," he says suddenly, and her head swivels slowly towards him. "Just wanted you to know that you're not fooling anyone. Gibbs isn't gonna send you back to Daddy if you admit that you're not really all Holly Golightly_,_ you know."

"_You_ have seen Breakfast at Tiffany's?"

"Sure," Tony replies easily, offering her his hand and gently pulling her from the couch. "Chicks go nuts for the SNAG – that's _sensitive new age guy_, for your continuing information – type, or at least the kind of chicks that don't think a perfect date involves the firing range followed by a spot of hand-to-hand combat."

"I do not see what young fowl have to do with anything," Ziva muses as she limps toward the bathroom. "Unless you are referring to the chauvinistic term that men assign to women they find attractive."

"Yeah," he says once safely she's out of whacking range, and the answering glare Ziva shoots at him over her shoulder melts away the last traces of the heavy weight in his stomach. They always bounce back – it's what they do. Really, it's what Gibbs has taught them to do. "Don't think you want to know the alternate definition for 'cougar', then…" he calls.

The muffled snort from the bathroom and the distinctive sound of something possibly shoe-shaped hitting the back of the closed door is answer enough.

They always bounce back. It's what they do.

* * *

_I know it's been a really long time, but... reviews still make my day. :)_


End file.
